“Oh. Yeah, of course,” he replies like it’s obvious.
Okay. That’s all I’ll be getting from that then.
He used to carry a leather pocket journal that would fit in the back of his jeans, so at odds with the football equipment spilling out of his bag. I’d always assumed that he was planning certain routes or plays, but I’d poke at him, joking that he looked like a tortured poet from decades past, always ready for inspiration to strike. He’d just laugh one of those evasive laughs and change the subject. I never did find out what he was writing in them. He’s certainly not plotting football routes anymore.
“If you want to get started, the ceiling needs a top coat. You’ll have to use the ladder to reach it, if that’s okay?” he asks, gaze staying pointedly down.
“Yeah. Sounds good. I put ‘pretty good at using a ladder’ in my application so,” I reply, deadpan.
He doesn’t offer so much as a polite chuckle.
Ouch
I drop my bag and walk to the center of the coffee shop where the ladder stands at attention, bucket of clear varnish ready beside it. Balancing the bucket in one hand, I lift my foot to the first rung and breathe out, trying to silently encourage myself.
If I take any longer to climb this thing he might notice, so I push off and climb the rest of the steps with as little thought as possible, ignoring the way my heart rate speeds up. I make the mistake of looking down, and the tiniest squeal escapes my throat.
“You good?” he calls from below.
“Yup! All good!” I call back, but my voice wavers slightly, giving me away.
“I would uh— I would take that job but I can’t…” He trails off, gesturing at his leg.
The one that has a limp.
“Oh! Oh, no worries at all. I love ladders. Love it up here.” I look around, trying to hide the lie with my acting skills.
I finish my climb up the ladder and look down again, noticing that I can see his notebook from this height. It’s not fully in focus, but I make out a sketch of… a birdhouse? I look around and realize the floor is covered with a litany of them, taken down for painting the ceiling I suppose. They were the ones hanging from nearly invisible string from the ceiling earlier today, exactly like the blueprint in his sketch.
Reds, yellows, greens, and blues. Every single one is painted in a color-blocked fashion. Whimsical really. Some small and some large, all with silver clockwork-looking wheels placed on the sides.
“Did you make those?” I call from above, completely in awe. I’ve forgotten my fear of heights at the sight of them.
He looks up at me for the first time, eyes following my finger to the various wooden creations.
“Oh. Yes.” He clears his throat, returning to his drawing. “I did.”
“Wow,” I mumble. The answer shouldn’t surprise me, and yet it does.
Every piece of new information is a jagged reminder of the life he’s forged beyond my scope. Evidence of the distance between us.
The muscles in his back sway as he removes the pencil from behind his ear and presses it into the paper.
“When did you learn to build things like that?” I ask, curiosity spurring me on.
There’s a sizable pause.
“After the accident,” he says finally. “When I was on bed rest.”
My heart rate kicks up as I try to figure out an appropriate response. We’ve never discussed the accident, never had the chance to, but he continues for me.
“Do you remember when I got a few scholarships for engineering?” he asks, gaze unmoving from his notebook.
“Yeah. Of course,” I say, voice losing bravado.
“I still had some interest in building, so I did some studying at home. Tinkering with my hands helped distract me from the fact that…” He pauses and starts again. “From not being able to run anymore. Train. Play football and all that.”
It’s the first time either of us has ever acknowledged the suddenness with which his life was changed that night. I’m shocked at his willingness to discuss it, with me of all people, but he relays the information coolly, unbothered by both the events he’s discussing and the person he’s discussing them with. His unshakable calm has remained intact, it seems.
